


The B. I. Stands for Body Inspector

by FiveEyesBurgerAndFries (Doesyourmotherknowyoureanon)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: J. Edgar Hoover Made Them Do It, M/M, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-22 14:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11382066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doesyourmotherknowyoureanon/pseuds/FiveEyesBurgerAndFries
Summary: "Before you take over as FBI Director, there is one more task we need to complete," he said, keeping his face impassive and his voice even. “It’s a simple torch-passing ritual to be conducted privately at both the former and new director’s convenience.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't: I'm not okay with podfics, translations, and having this fic used in articles about fans or fandom. Additionally, I'm VERY NOT OKAY with this being shared with anyone like, say, your cousin who's twitter-famous for their Russia investigation hot takes. Mmmkay?

Robert Mueller sighed and discreetly checked his watch. Between his general dislike of parties and dread of the conversation ahead of him, he felt like he was stranded in a genteel purgatory with cheese platters. He drained his glass of wine and regretted for what felt like the dozenth time that he couldn’t email Comey and be done with it. It was the kind of news you had to break in person.

 _At least the guest of honor’s having a good time_ he thought. Comey kept his face in a well-mannered slight smile, but every so often, when he thought nobody was looking, his mouth would quirk upward. His wife, allowed by some arcane social rule to be more prideful than him, was doing the emoting for both of them, squeezing his arm and grinning whenever she wasn't talking.

Comey caught his eye, and Mueller sighed. Might as well get it done now. 

"Director Comey,” he said, and Comey puffed the tiniest bit at Mueller using his new title. “I need a few words after the party." 

"Of course." Mueller saw people starting to make their way out, thank God.

"Let’s take my car to the office," he said. Comey looked slightly put-out, but relented after kissing his wife on the cheek and joining the coat line.

Mueller made sure to keep Comey talking on the car ride there, letting Comey poke fun at him (“You make the same face at parties that you did when you talked to Dick Cheney,”) and gossip about mutual colleagues. He was grinning by the time Mueller asked their security details to take a walk, and it was just Comey and him in his- soon to be Comey’s-office.

He sat Comey on the couch while he took the file out of its storage. 

"Before you take over as FBI Director, there is one more task we need to complete," he said, keeping his face impassive and his voice even. “It’s a simple torch-passing ritual to be conducted privately at both the former and new director’s convenience.”

He handed Comey the file and sat on the the couch’s overstuffed arm, deliberately keeping his posture casual while still sitting as far away from Comey as possible.

Comey read it over, lips mouthing the words until he got to that part. Mueller knew that part. He stopped and stared at the paper, his face turning beet-red and eyebrows drawing together in shock.

"The newly sworn-in Director’s final transition duty involves sexual congress to completion with the former director." He said it out loud, like that would make it magically an appropriate, expected duty. He turned the paper over, and his face fell.

“Sorry, there’s no ‘April Fools’ on the back,” said Mueller.

Comey gave a short, mirthless laugh. Finally, he looked up.

"Mr. Mueller, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were making this up." He laughed nervously, glancing back and forth from the paper to Mueller. Mueller was getting dizzy just looking at it.

Mueller slid onto the couch proper. "This particular protocol dates back to the Hoover era. The original file with his signature has been digitized, if you’d like me to bring it up for you."

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” said Comey.

He paused for a moment, lips pursed in thought.

"Hoover died in office," he said flatly.

Mueller nodded.

"So, uh...?" Comey’s face twisted into a moue of contemplative disgust as the wheels turned, like he was looking through an unexpectedly nasty brief.

"I believe he had a--a mold of himself made prior to his death,” said Mueller.

Comey exhaled heavily.

“Well, that was a creative way of telling Tolson to go fuck himself."

Mueller snorted. “Well, you’ve heard the rumors about Hoover and Tolson....”

“I suppose it could have been a lovers’ gift,” Comey said.

He turned to face Mueller. “This has really been done for all leadership changes here?”he asked.

“Yep.” said Mueller. “Pickard’s moustache tickled,” he added, just to mess with Comey. He wasn’t disappointed by the look of horror on Comey’s face.

"Bob, I-I've never-with a-," he started.

"Neither had I, but the mechanics are essentially the same," said Mueller. 

"Well, that too, but my wife was my only-"

"Me too, and I understand your distress at breaking your marital vow." Mueller was sympathetic, but it was late and he was starting to grow impatient. He raised an eyebrow at Comey and stared until Comey blinked nervously and decided he was more comfortable examining the stained carpet. 

"I have to talk to my wife about this," he said softly.

"A wise decision," said Mueller. "I should talk to mine, too."

 

Comey called him the day after next.

"She, uh, gave me the go-ahead," he blurted without as much as a hello first. Mueller could hear his blush through the phone.

"I'm glad that you have such an open and communicative relationship with your wife," Mueller replied.

"Also, Dir-uh, Mr. Mueller? I apologize for my prior reluctance to complete this task. It doesn’t reflect my willingness to perform unorthodox duties for the FBI or my opinion of you as a person." 

Mueller bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

"Thank you, Director Comey. I will see you the night after tomorrow at eleven, if that’s a good time for you, at the office. Almost everybody should be gone by then. Please bring whatever you consider appropriate to feel comfortable." Bob sighed as he hung up, and immediately dialed his barber. He needed a haircut.

 

Of course Comey showed up at a quarter to eleven, brandishing a gift bag with the neck of a bottle sticking out. 

"I thought this might help us along," Jim said sheepishly. He was wearing a deep green tie and had a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to his chin.

"Good thinking," said Bob. 

“Jim, uh.” He made a sweeping motion at his chin. He found two tumblers while Jim excused himself to the bathroom to take care of it.

They made quick work of the first and second glasses, but the third drinks took longer as their conversation veered wildly between familiarity and nervousness, stopping hastily at the mention of a wife or child. 

They eventually found more comfortable ground in an intellectual pissing match, which suited Bob just fine.

“I believe it was Gore Vidal who said that for people over a certain age, litigation replaces sex,” said Bob.

Jim smirked over his glass. “What was your excuse before you were a certain age, Bob?”

“I don’t know, Jim, what was yours?” Not the wittiest reply, but he was tipsy and had just noticed that Jim (or maybe his wife?) chose the tie to match his eyes.

They looked at each other and started laughing. It took a long time for them to stop.

“I can’t believe we have to go through with this,” said Jim finally, wiping his eyes.

Bob shook his head. “That bastard Hoover set this up just so he could get a good show in hell.”

He noticed Jim was looking at him differently. _Examining_ him."Let’s give him a good show, then,” he said.

He scooted closer. "Can I kiss you, Mr. Mueller?"

"Go ahead," said Bob, fully recovered from his uncharacteristic giggles. 

Jim’s lips were warm and a little chapped. It was disconcerting for Bob to crane his neck up to kiss someone, since he hadn’t had to do that since he was of an age where the girls were mostly taller than the boys. 

Neither of them knew what to do after that, which was stupid because they had a collective half-century’s experience with marriage; Jim’s hand hovered over Bob’s shoulder, like he intended to put it there, but then abruptly aborted the mission to rest on the back of the couch. Bob unthinkingly opened his mouth to sigh at Jim, but Jim took it as a cue to open his mouth too, and suddenly the kiss wasn’t a chaste peck anymore. 

They untangled themselves abruptly.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying, but this is still absurd,” said Jim. His breath smelled like liquor and his cheeks were flushed.

Bob nodded in agreement. “Absurd or not, we still have to get it done, though,” he said, and pulled Jim’s head down for another kiss. They went even slower this time, feeling each other out like a conversation with a new colleague before knowing which political party they support. Bob could tell Jim was waiting for him to do something, still deferring to his lead, so he opened his mouth first. 

He was trying so hard to treat Bob respectfully. He kept his hands in decorous places, and never did anything unless Bob did it first. He was probably a perfect gentleman to everyone he ever dated. It was starting to irritate Bob, truthfully. He wasn’t a goddamn piece of glass.

Bob tried to communicate that he wasn’t a goddamn piece of glass by kissing Jim harder, nipping at his lower lip. Jim startled, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he put his hand on Bob’s shoulder and ran his tongue against Bob’s lower lip. He wasn’t bad, once he relaxed a little, kissing Bob more deeply and stroking the back of his neck. Bob was surprised to find himself getting impatient, wishing Jim would just do something more, urging him on by sucking on his tongue.

 

He cupped Jim’s face and pressed forward, making their thighs touch and forcing Jim’s tongue further against his soft palate. Jim squeaked and immediately responded in kind. When Jim pulled away, there were beads of sweat on his forehead and the flush had spread to his neck. 

“Can I,” he began before ducking down and attaching his mouth to his earlobe. Bob stretched automatically to accommodate Jim. It was still weird, but as far as weirdness went, it was pleasant enough.

It got easier after that. Bob had the idea that Jim was used to a more responsive partner, so he played up his reactions a little, but his sharp inhale when Jim ran his fingers through his hair was genuine. He leaned closer and slid his hands down Jim’s back.

Bob huffed in surprise when Jim pulled him forward into his lap. Jim was usually so deferential to him, almost diffident, that Bob forgot it was largely calculated. Jim knew how to press his advantage when it suited him.

Bob felt ridiculous, straddling Jim like a high schooler in the back of a car. But the alcohol was still buzzing pleasantly through him and Jim had finally showed some initiative. Plus, he was doing something very nice indeed to the side of Bob’s neck. His hands were busy trying to remove Bob’s suit jacket while ineffectively shimmying out of his own. Bob took pity on Jim, pulling him forward, pushing his jacket down past his shoulders.

“Bob, how’s your knee?” asked Jim suddenly. His lips were red and puffy and only a sliver of green iris circled his wide pupils. Bob couldn’t imagine how he looked to Jim.

Truth be told, it was starting to complain. Bob was no whiner, though.

“Fine,” he said and redirected Jim’s mouth to his. Jim moaned quietly and the sound crawled down Bob’s spine, made him feel overheated. He tugged at the hem of Jim’s shirt to untuck it, and really shouldn’t have been surprised at the erection he brushed against.

He made a choked-off groan and Bob suddenly felt Jim’s big hands cupping his ass. Bob startled, and, shit, he noticed.

"Sorry," Jim said, and quickly moved his hands to Bob’s lower back like he took a liberty too far.

"No," said Bob shortly. He reached behind him, and firmly placed Jim’s hand back on his ass. Red-faced, Jim dragged him forward until their crotches practically touched.

Jim looked up at him like he was thinking of something when Bob ground down on him and he whined high in the back of his throat.

As they synced up, set a good push-pull rhythm, they finally started to forget about the world outside the office. 

Jim’s big green eyes were glassy with desire and he bucked up hard against Bob when Bob’s hands wormed its way between them.

“Yeah,” he said, determinedly pulling at Bob’s belt. Bob groaned when Jim teasingly squeezed him through his pants before unzipping him. 

Bob avoided looking down when he could feel Jim’s cock out of his pants. He didn’t want Jim to think he was making comparisons or anything. Bob tried to concentrate on unbuttoning Jim’s shirt, but Jim running his thumb over the head of his cock made it very difficult.

There was part of him that wanted to stay in this liminal state forever, necking like teenagers with his hands fisted in Jim’s hair. They were more panting into each other’s mouths than kissing at this point, and Jim’s grasp of both their cocks was just right.

Until suddenly he couldn’t.

“Jim,” he said urgently. Jim stroked them faster, making Bob’s hips twitch and the threat of orgasm rear its head.

“Jim!” He put his hand over Jim’s. Thank God he stopped.

“Let’s,” Bob’s voice sounded scratchy. took a deep breath and tried again. “Let’s move this to the floor.” 

“Okay,” he said.

Bob’s knee cracked ominously when he stood up, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. He reached behind the couch and pulled out a throw pillow, the one with the stupid tassels.

Jim reached for the gift bag and pulled out a tube of personal lubricant and a paper that he checked briefly before sliding it back in the bag.

"I'll prepare myself," he said hurriedly, as if he were doing Bob a favor. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bob said. He threw the pillow on the floor.

“Put your head there.”

Jim didn’t protest, but he still wouldn’t let Bob prepare him. For once, Bob loomed over him, jerking Jim off while he slowly opened himself up.

“I know it's uncomfortable at first, but, you have to push through it." With his other hand, he pushed Jim's hair out of his eyes."

"This will distract you if you’re feeling any pain,” Bob explained, thumb following the vein along the bottom of Jim's cock.

“I’m distracted, all right,” Jim mock-complained, leaking precome.

“Okay, okay,” Jim said a little breathlessly at a particularly ruthless twist of Bob’s wrist. His pantslessness emphasized that he was approximately two-thirds leg.

“Jesus, Jim,” said Bob, trying to corral their bodies into something vaguely resembling a sexual position.

Jim’s laugh cut off abruptly when Bob began to push in.

"Oh," he said instead, his eyes almost comically wide.

“Does it hurt?” asked Bob. 

“No, just give me a minute,” said Jim.

"That-that feels," he added with no other words behind it. He looked more curious than anything, hands lying uselessly at his sides. Bob saw a muscle in his thigh twitch. 

Jim nodded.

Bob started thrusting shallowly. He was warm and almost too tight, but Bob couldn’t lose himself completely in the experience.

He looked up questioningly.

“You don’t have to hold back,” said Jim, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Bob impulsively leaned forward to kiss him, but couldn’t quite reach his lips. His mouth settled on Jim's throat, and he could feel the vibration of Jim’s groan against his lips. He started thrusting harder, pulling Jim's ass higher for a better angle. Jim's nails dug into his back and bunched up his shirt. 

"Please," Jim said in a strained voice.

Bob almost got the wind knocked out of him when Jim pulled him forward even more. He yanked Jim’s shirt up and his hand scrabbled around Jim’s belly before finally finding his cock.

Jim bucked up and Bob made a sound he hoped never to make again when Jim tightened around him. 

Bob sped up his hand, and it wasn’t long before Jim cried out and came messily all over Bob's hand and his shirttails.

Bob’s orgasm hit him not long after, like a punch to the gut.

“Here, have some pillow,” said Jim. He moved his head half-off the pillow and patted it. Bob gratefully took it. They lay in silence for a moment, catching their breath.

Finally, Jim sighed and made a pinched face at the stains on his shirt.

“Not my fault you decided to keep it on,” said Bob loftily.

“You know what,” Jim started, propping himself up on his elbows. “Never mind,” he said, and lowered himself to the carpet again with a floor-shaking thump.

“Why couldn’t we have had a normal founder?” Jim asked. Bob privately wondered the same thing many times, but didn’t voice his opinions.

“I don’t know, Jim. I don’t know.”


	2. The Remix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I realized that in all the Comey/Mueller fic, there was nothing with Mueller bottoming. So here, have an alternate take. I also made some alterations to the first chapter.

Bob stood up, and his knee wobbled dangerously. He suppressed a wince at how unpleasant it felt.

“Change of plans,” he said, half-sitting/half-falling onto the couch. “My knee isn’t cooperating.”

Jim nodded. Bob held out his hand but Jim refused to toss him the lubricant.

“I’ll prepare myself,” he said. Bob sighed. 

“Excuse me for not clarifying. What I meant is that you’ll have to fuck me.” He hadn’t meant to put it so baldly. Jim’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

Jim took a moment to respond. “I know we hadn’t discussed this before, but I assumed from the memo’s context that the, um, position should mimic the transfer of power, with the previous director passing on his….” 

“You were correct to interpret the memo that way, and I’m glad you took the time to research, but we need to change the protocol for my damn knee,” said Bob.

“Okay,” Jim said, and for the first time this evening, nervousness crossed his face.

He held out his arm for Bob, which he gratefully took. Jim helped him lower himself to the floor. 

“Okay?” asked Jim as he positioned himself between Bob’s spread legs.

“Yup,” said Bob.  
Jim held up the tube of lubricant.

“Go ahead,” said Bob. 

He coated his fingers liberally and circled Bob’s entrance twice before slowly pushing his finger in. Jim’s eyes were boring into his, scanning him for any sign of discomfort. 

“Everything’s fine, Jim,” Bob said a little impatiently. Jim was moving his finger in and out, barely far enough for Bob to feel.

“It feels good,” he added even though it didn’t feel like anything yet, pushing back against the finger and spreading his legs wider. Evidently, that’s what Jim was waiting for. A second finger joined the first, still maddeningly gentle.

Bob’s cock, which had wilted from lack of attention, began to reinflate. Jim was still slow and careful, even as Bob tried to force his fingers deeper inside. He inhaled sharply when Jim finally added a third finger.

“Are you ready?” Jim asked about an eternity. His sly hint of a smile suggested he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” said Bob.

He prepared Bob so thoroughly that there was no pain when he pushed in, just tantalizing fullness and pressure. Jim’s eyes closed and his mouth opened wordlessly.

“You can start moving whenever you want,” Bob said pre-emptively. Jim nodded without opening his eyes.

Then, he began to move with smooth, even strokes. It was like the tide coming in, slow at first, but eventually swelling into something overwhelming. Bob could do little more than pull Jim closer and ask for more. He obliged, taking Bob’s cock in his hand and starting to stroke. Bob held on for an embarrassingly short time before orgasm overtook him. Through his haze, he felt Jim’s hand tighten on his side as he climaxed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so late to the party, guys. Concrit welcome!


End file.
